Beyond the Reef

by Kent, Alexander

  Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker settled himself once more in his chair and glanced briefly at his companions. He was still savouring the taste of fine cheese and the liberal glasses of port, finer than any he had lately enjoyed. It seemed to sustain him in this time of confrontation with his final duty, unpleasant though it would be. His mind lingered on it. But necessary.

  He realised that the Judge Advocate was watching him patiently. The stage was set. He glanced at the accused, but the stocky rear-admiral’s face gave nothing away.

  The men from the London and Portsmouth newspapers were present; the marine officer was behind Herrick’s chair, as if he had never moved throughout the whole trial.

  He said, “Mr Cotgrave, I would like to be assured that Captain Hector Gossage is indeed fit to give his evidence.”

  Cotgrave regarded him impassively. “The surgeon is here, Sir James.”

  A surgeon from Haslar Hospital bobbed to the table. “I have presently examined Captain Gossage and am confident there has been an improvement, Sir James. He begs me to apologise for his behaviour before this Court, and I agree that he had been given too much to reduce his pain, and was not himself.”

  Hamett-Parker gave a rare smile. It reminded Bolitho, who was watching every move with growing despair, of a fox about to pounce on a rabbit.

  Hamett-Parker nodded. “Then we shall proceed.”

  Captain Gossage walked from the rear of the visitors and barely needed the support of each row of chairs as he passed. He did not even seem to notice the curious stares which came from every side. Pity, understanding from his fellow captains, impatience too from those eager to see it finished one way or the other.

  He bowed slightly to the officers of the Court and sat down gingerly in the same chair as before.

  Bolitho watched as he shook his head to the offer of help from a hospital orderly.

  The Judge Advocate asked, “Are you comfortable, Captain Gossage?”

  Gossage moved painfully to hold the stump of his severed arm clear of the chair. “I am, sir.” Then he faced the admiral. “I can only ask the Court’s pardon for yesterday’s behaviour, Sir James. I barely knew what I was doing.”

  The vice-admiral named Nevill nodded. “Only time can mend what you have suffered.” Some of the other officers beside him murmured in agreement.

  Hamett-Parker said, “Then we will continue?”

  Bolitho heard the sharpness in his tone. A man who obviously hated anyone else to offer an opinion.

  A messenger came up the aisle between the chairs and placed some books on a table within Gossage’s reach.

  He said, “My ship’s log and signal book, Sir James. Each portion of the engagement is recorded until we came to close-action.” His face was like stone. “When there was nobody left on the quarterdeck to attend to it. Even the admiral’s flag lieutenant had fallen by then.” He pouted, as Bolitho had seen him do in the past. “And I had been carried below to the orlop.”

  Bolitho saw his remaining hand clutch his chair, reliving the nightmare, the agony, the sounds of hell itself.

  Cotgrave said gently, “In your own words, Captain Gossage. The details of the log are already recorded.”

  Gossage leaned back and closed his eyes. “I am able, thank you.” There was a bluntness in his tone. For these moments anyway, he was no longer a cripple; he was the flag captain again.

  “After making contact with the brig Larne, and knowing the approximate position and bearing of the enemy, we decided to make all sail possible.”

  Cotgrave prompted, “ We decided?”

  Gossage nodded and winced. “As flag captain I was always consulted, naturally, and you will already know that the same wind which brought Sir Richard Bolitho’s ships to our eventual relief, was opposing us and our convoy.”

  Cotgrave darted a glance at his clerks; their quills were dashing back and forth across their papers. “And then, on the day when the enemy made its appearance, what was happening?”

  Gossage replied, “There was a mist, and the convoy had become scattered overnight. But we had made good progress, and I knew that Larne was fast enough to pass word to the admiral.”

  “Were you as surprised as Larne’s commander that it should be passed to Admiral Gambier, rather than to Sir Richard, the accused’s friend?”

  Gossage considered it. “Admiral Gambier was in overall command. I can see no other alternative.”

  Cotgrave turned over another paper. “Was there any discussion as to whether the convoy should scatter or disperse at this point?”

  Gossage dabbed his face with his handkerchief; the pain was making him sweat badly.

  “Yes, we discussed it. We had no frigate, the wind was against us; if the convoy had been broken up I believe it would have been destroyed piecemeal. Most of them were slow, deep-laden—an illmatched collection if ever I saw one.” He did not conceal his bitterness. “Even the poor old Egret, our remaining escort, was a floating relic.”

  Hamett-Parker snapped, “You cannot say that!”

  Cotgrave gave a mild grin. “I am afraid he can, Sir James. Egret was a hulk even before the war began. She was refitted for less demanding duties.”

  Gossage repeated, “She was a relic.”

  Bolitho watched Herrick’s expression. He was staring at Gossage as if he could not believe what he had heard.

  “And then?”

  Gossage frowned. “Rear-Admiral Herrick ordered a gun to be fired to hasten the convoy into a manageable line again, to keep station on one another. Then he insisted that I should order the signal to be spelled out, word by word, so that each master would know and understand the nearness of danger.”

  “And what of your superior’s demeanour at that time?”

  Gossage glanced at Herrick, his features completely empty of expression. “He was calm enough. There was no other alternative but to stand together and fight.” He lifted his chin slightly. “The Benbow has never run away. Nor would she.”

  Bolitho watched Herrick’s face working with sudden emotion. Once he shook his head, but when asked if he wished to put a question to his past captain he wiped his eyes and remained silent.

  Bolitho felt the tension rising around him like steam. Gossage’s simple, almost resigned words had changed everything. He was the man of the moment, the only man who had known what had really happened. Bolitho’s own description of what he had found when he had boarded the shattered flagship had acted like an introduction. Gossage had ended it.

  Cotgrave folded his papers and cleared his throat. “I believe it is time for the Court to adjourn, Sir James.”

  Bolitho looked over and saw Hamett-Parker staring at him, like that first time. There was no hint of justice being done. If anything, there was only fury.

  “Remove the accused!”

  Then the Court filed out.

  Keen entered and found a seat beside him. “I still cannot understand! I am not deceived, am I, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho was glad he was with him. “You were not, Val. Gossage made no prior statement, he was too ill at the time. Perhaps this is his way.”

  Keen still watched him with surprise. “But he owes RearAdmiral Herrick nothing, Sir Richard!”

  “Have you never heard of revenge, Val?”

  Someone whispered hoarsely, “They’re coming back.”

  Gossage was standing in the shadows, drinking from a goblet which someone had brought for him. He looked tired and sick, yet unable to leave.

  Hamett-Parker said flatly, “Marshal, do your duty.”

  The Royal Marine officer picked up Herrick’s sword and after a small hesitation, laid it down again. It brought a great roar of gasps and excitement from the craning visitors. “The sword’s hilt was toward Herrick’s chair.”

  “Bring in the accused.”

  The footsteps halted abruptly beside Bolitho’s seat, and when he glanced round he saw Herrick, as white as a sheet, staring at the table as if he had been stricken by some terrible disease. />
  Cotgrave said, “Rear-Admiral Herrick, you are discharged. The charges brought against you are dropped. They cannot be recommitted.”

  Herrick stared round until he saw Gossage, then he said tonelessly, “Damn you to hell, Gossage. God rot you. ”

  Gossage raised the goblet in salute and leaning on the orderly’s arm, allowed himself to be guided to another door.

  Keen said, “I must see the members of the Court to their boats, Sir Richard.” He turned anxiously. “Wait for me, please.”

  But Allday was here, massive and frowning, his hat beneath his arm.

  Bolitho touched Keen’s sleeve and shook his head.

  To Allday he said, “Take me ashore, old friend. It’s all over.” He looked back at Herrick and saw some officers around him, their faces beaming with congratulations.

  He could not see Herrick’s expression. He was still holding the sword in his hands like a man who had been cheated, and betrayed.

  5 THE HAND OF A LADY

  BRYAN FERGUSON opened the doors of the big grey house and beamed with pleasure.

  “Captain Adam, of all people! When I saw you ride in just now I thought, well, for a moment . . .” He shook his head admiringly. “What a pity John Allday is not here to see you!”

  Captain Adam Bolitho walked into the great room, his eyes taking in everything, noticing small changes. The hand of a lady.

  He said, “I hear he has been in Portsmouth, Bryan.”

  “You know of the court martial, sir?”

  Adam walked to the great fireplace and touched the family crest above it. Remembering. Remembering so many things. How, when only fourteen years old, he had walked all the way from Penzance where his mother had died, with a scrap of paper and the name of the one man who would take care of him. This home was like his own. Sir Richard Bolitho had made certain it would be his one day, just as he had given him the family name.

  He remembered what Ferguson had asked him. “Aye, the whole fleet must know by now.” He changed the subject. “I saw my uncle’s carriage in the stable yard. Is he here yet?”

  Ferguson shook his head. “He will be sailing from Falmouth soon, so he sent his flag lieutenant on ahead to attend to things. Yovell came with him.”

  He watched Adam as he moved restlessly about the room. He had looked so like Bolitho when he had ridden in. But the young man with hair as black as his uncle’s was only 27 with the single epaulette of captain on his right shoulder.

  Adam saw the look and smiled. “It will be a pair this year, Bryan, if all goes well. I shall be posted in the autumn.”

  Ferguson approved. So like his beloved uncle, he had gained his first command at the age of twenty-two or three. Now he captained a fine new frigate named Anemone.

  Adam said, “I am ordered to the Irish Sea. There is privateer activity in those waters. We might call a few of them to action.”

  Ferguson asked, “Can you stay until tomorrow? Sir Richard should be here by then—he sent word by post-boy this morning. I can tell Mrs Ferguson to prepare one of your favourites if . . .” He saw Adam’s eyes widen suddenly with surprise, or even shock.

  Zenoria stood in the curve of the stairway and looked at him for several seconds. “Why, Captain Bolitho!” She laughed; she had seemed a young girl again when she had been frowning at the sound of voices. “What a family for surprises!” She offered her hand and he kissed it.

  He said awkwardly, “I did not know, Mrs Keen . . .”

  She smiled. “Please call me Zenoria. Lady Catherine has taught me the informality within this family.” She threw back her hair and laughed at his intent features. “Does command make that difficult?”

  Adam had recovered a little. “Captain Keen must be thanking God every day for his good fortune.”

  She saw him look towards the stair and said, “He’s not yet here. Perhaps the day after tomorrow. He’s sailing with Sir Richard.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Ferguson said, “Mrs Keen will be staying with us, Captain Adam.”

  She walked into the adjoining room and gestured towards the tall ranks of leather-bound books. “Unlike you, Adam,” she hesitated over his name, “I had little education but what my father gave me.”

  Adam smiled, but his tone was sad as he answered, “I lived in a slum until my mother died. She had nothing but her body, which she gave to her ‘gentlemen’ in order to keep us alive.” He dropped his eyes. “I—I am so sorry, Zenoria, I did not mean to be offensive. I want anything but that.”

  She touched his arm and said quietly, “I am the one to apologise. It seems that life was hard for both of us at the beginning.”

  He looked at her hand on his cuff, Keen’s ring shining dully in the bars of sunshine.

  He said, “I am glad you are to stay here. Perhaps I might call, if my ship is in harbour?”

  She walked to the windows and gazed out at the garden and beyond to the hillside.

  “How can you ask?” She turned, framed against the trees, her eyes laughing at him. “It is your house, is it not?”

  Ferguson left the room and found his wife, the housekeeper here, discussing vegetables with the cook.

  “How is he, Bryan? Will he stay awhile?”

  The cook made some excuse and went back to her kitchen and Ferguson said, “I think he will stay, Grace.” He turned and heard the girl laughing, for girl was all she was. “I just hope Sir Richard comes soon.” To himself he added, and Lady Catherine. She would know what to do.

  His wife smiled. “All together again. A proper home once more. I’ll go and see to things.”

  Ferguson stared after her plump figure, remembering how she had nursed and cared for him when he had come home from the war with an arm missing.

  If only it could be as Grace believed. But one day, inevitably, the news would come. He glanced up at the nearest portrait by the stairs, Captain David Bolitho, who had died fighting pirates off the African shores. He was wearing the family sword. It had been new then, and made to his own design. Like all the other portraits, he was waiting for the last Bolitho to join them. It saddened Ferguson greatly, but perhaps he would not live to see it. He followed the voices to the library and saw Captain Adam offering Zenoria his arm as a prop while she stood on some small steps to examine books which had probably not been disturbed for years.

  My God, he thought, they look so right together. The realisation shocked him more than he had believed possible.

  Adam turned and saw him. “I shall be staying awhile, Bryan. My worthy first lieutenant can use the experience!”

  Ferguson could say nothing to Grace; and anyway she would not believe him. She saw good in almost everybody.

  Allday, then? But he would not be here to offer advice or reassurance once the ship had sailed for the Cape.

  Adam did not even see Ferguson leave. “As you are already wearing riding habit, may I take you up to the castle? It will give us both an appetite suitable for Mrs Ferguson’s table!”

  Footsteps came through the hallway, and he saw lieutenant Jenour staring at him uncertainly.

  Adam shook his hand warmly. “You look weary, Stephen!” He waited for the girl to put a book back on its shelf, his eyes never leaving her. “But you are my uncle’s flag lieutenant so you do not have to explain. I was that too, some years back.”

  He called, “Come, Zenoria, I’ll fetch the horses!”

  She paused by Jenour. “Is everything settled, Stephen?”

  “I think so. It is rumoured that Rear-Admiral Herrick has been discharged, cleared of all the accusations. I still do not properly understand.”

  She put her hand on his. “I am glad, if it is true—for Sir Richard’s sake especially. I know he was very disturbed about it.” She raised her riding crop and called, “I’m coming, Adam! You are all impatience, sir!”

  Jenour watched them leave, his young mind busy on several matters at once. But one thing stood out like a navigation beacon on a cliff. He had not seen Keen’s wife so happy bef
ore.

  Yovell appeared through a small door, his jaw working on something he had borrowed from the kitchen.

  “Ah, there you are, Yovell . . .” The little vignette of the girl and the young captain vanished from his thoughts. A flag lieutenant never had enough time in any day to keep his admiral’s affairs in motion.

  Allday paused on a narrow track and settled down with his back against a slate wall. When he was home from sea and had a spare moment he often came to this quiet place to be alone with his thoughts. He gave a tired grin. And with a good stone bottle of rum. He began to fill his pipe, and waited for the sea breeze to soften before lighting it. He could see the whole span of Falmouth Bay from here; it was not that far from the farm where he had been working as a sheep-minder when the press-gang from Bolitho’s ship Phalarope had eventually caught up with him, and, although he had had no way of knowing it, changed his life forever.

  They had been back from Portsmouth for two days, and it was no surprise to find that the news of Herrick’s court martial was already common gossip. He swallowed some rum and wedged the bottle carefully between his legs. Now it was off to sea again. Strange to wake up each day without the squeal of calls, the Spithead Nightingales as the Jacks called them. No gun and sail drills to send the feet stamping and the topmen clambering aloft, one mast racing the next for the best performance. He would be a passenger this time. The thought might have amused him, but for the other sadness which hung heavily upon him. He had told Bryan Ferguson, his oldest friend, about it; but nobody else. It was strange, but he had had the feeling that Ferguson had been about to confide in him in turn about something, but had decided to let the matter drop.

  Allday had seen his son John Bankart on his return from Portsmouth. He had once been so proud of the lad, especially as he had not even known of his existence for years. When his son had been appointed as Captain Adam’s coxswain, Allday’s pride had expanded even further.

  Now Bankart was out of the navy, and Captain Adam had arranged it; he had said that he had known he would be killed if he remained with the fleet. But there was worse to come. His son had got himself married. They had not waited for Allday to come home. They had not even written to him. He could not read at all well, but Ozzard would have read a letter for him. Allday listened to the breeze as it hissed through the long grass, while some gulls wheeled and screamed against a clear sky. The spirits of dead sailormen, some said.